An Ironic Reckoning
by genies9
Summary: set three years after Twilight Paul Slater returns home for Jesse and Suze's wedding only to be bombarded by memories of a past loveand then to be faced with the reality of a new love. Chapter 5 now up
1. Prologue

A/N: sigh I will escape this fandom someday. But apparently not today. I don't know why I'm writing this now, when I'm supposed to be in bed. But I've just had one hell of a night (break-ups are oh so much fun…) and… for some reason that makes me want to write romance. I'm so odd.

I decided to write this while trying to reread parts of Twilight to make myself feel better. My initial reaction to the idea of writing a story for Paul: "Nonononono, oh, hell NO." I like Paul just fine. But it kind of kills my "he makes a good villain" thing.

And it's all in third person. To spare of you of having to jump back and forth between first and third.

Prologue

Suze and Jesse's wedding.

Paul shook his head wryly, hardly able to believe he was standing there. It had been three years since Jesse had come back to life, since Paul had realized he wasn't really in love with Suze. They were friends now—well, sort of. He saw them sometimes when he came home, they'd been there when his grandfather died, and he hadn't exactly been surprised when a wedding invitation had shown up in his mailbox. But that didn't exactly mean they were buddies.

If it was possible to be casual friends with people you'd been through so much with, that was what they were.

It was a step up, at least, from enemies.

Paul leaned against the wall, sipping his drink—apple cider, since the bride and most of the wedding party were all still under age—mostly watching everyone else. Since he had left home, he had mostly alienated himself from the rest of the world—at least "the rest of the world" which existed in Carmel, California.

"You look like you're hiding over here, you know."

Paul glanced at Suze, who was smiling at him as she approached. "I'm not hiding. I'm just enjoying the festivities."

"From the corner."

Paul shrugged. "The last time I wandered away from the wall, I was dragged into conversation by your brother." Then, he added at the same time she did, "Stepbrother. Whatever. I'd rather not have to listen to Brad for a prolonged period of time if you don't mind."

Suze rolled her eyes, still smiling. Paul didn't think he'd seen her stop smiling the entire day. "I don't blame you. Though, if you left the wall, you would have a better chance of running into talking to someone more interesting. Like…" she glanced around the room. "Like David."

"Even worse."

Shaking her head, Suze sighed. "Just wait until your own wedding. You won't be able to avoid everyone then."

Paul continued to sip his cider, averting his gaze. "I'm not getting married."

"Of course you are. Sooner or later some girl's going to come along you'll fall madly in love, or some other cliché." She patted his arm. "It's inevitable, Paul. Face it."

"If you say so." Paul watched her as she went to find Jesse, then turned away. He didn't bother to tell Suze that it had already happened. The falling in love part, anyway. She'd probably find the irony of it rather amusing.

He set his glass down on a nearby table, and wondered if it was too soon to make a hasty exit. He needed to get out of Carmel. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to get as far away from it as humanly possible.

He hadn't thought it would still hurt after two years. Apparently he was wrong, and all he wanted to do was to escape from the memories being home brought up.

* * *

A/N: The plot is coming to me as I write this… bleh. So much for escaping the Mediator fandom. 


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Rewriting Chapter 1 because I don't have what I started on this computer… bleh. I was thinking "Maybe I should wait till I get more reviews for the prologue." But I really don't feel like making myself wait, and in the meantime, it's moving farther down the page anyway, so my chances of people seeing it become less, and much as I love feedback… I'm becoming antsy to write more. Lol

On a side note… what the devil is a "gork?"

Part 1

Chapter 1

He hated funerals.

Paul walked into his grandfather's house—or rather, what used to be his house—pulling off his suit jacket and yanking at his tie as he went.

It wasn't as if it had been unexpected. Hell, everyone had expected Dr. Slaski to die at least a year ago. Figured, Paul thought, smiling faintly, the man had been too stubborn to die until he was good and ready. It had worked out well, at least—they had had more time to get to know each other better, to make amends for the past.

Paul stood in the front foyer, looking around. He was going to have spend his final summer before leaving for college cleaning up his grandfather's things so that the house could be sold at the end of the summer. He supposed it was probably better that he was the one doing it; if his dad did it, he would end up throwing out whatever he found on shifting. Paul never knew when he might need it. Or Suze might want to take a look at it some time.

Deciding to start in the attic, Paul made his way upstairs. He passed the various rooms—his bedroom, the bathroom, his grandfather's room, a study, his father's old room—until he finally reached the doorway at the end of the hall. It led to a set of stairs leading to the attic.

The attic smelled of mildew, and most everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. When Paul glanced back, he could see his footprints on the floor. He made a mental note to do something about that very soon. He crossed to the far side of the attic and flung open the window, taking a deep breath as fresh air rushed in.

Paul turned to survey the room. There were boxes everywhere, some labeled, others left blank. There was a dresser in one corner and an old bed—minus the mattress—in another. He opened the box nearest to him and peered inside. It was filled to the brim with papers and notebooks. This was going to take awhile.

He was just beginning to sift through the boxes when he heard the doorbell ring. Sighing, he turned to look out the window. Not that it was much use; all he could see from there was the top of someone's head.

Tossing down the notebook he'd been holding, Paul left the attic and hurried downstairs. He didn't really want to deal with anyone right then, so he took his time getting to the door. It would be just as well if whoever it was gave up and left before he got there.

As it happened, they didn't give up. Paul swung open the door and all he could manage to do for a moment was gape.

Later—much later, when just the thought of her stopped being so heart-wrenchingly painful—Paul would think back on the first time he ever saw Emma Davis and remember the first thing he thought when he saw her.

She was beautiful. Or at least, she was to him. She stood there on the front porch, smiling brightly at him, in her ankle-length skirt and with her light brown—or was it dark blonde?—hair hanging around her shoulders. She didn't wear any make-up, though Paul thought later that it might have actually taken away from how she looked, if that were possible.

"Paul Slater?" When he nodded, coming out of his daze, she stuck out her hand. "I'm Emma Davis. I heard about your grandfather." She gave him a sympathetic look—genuinely sympathetic, not like the looks other people had been giving him today.

Paul finally realized he was supposed to shake the hand she offered. God, he was slow today. "I… yeah. Thanks." A beautiful woman was standing on his doorstep, and what happened? He started stammering like an idiot. "You knew my grandfather?" She nodded. "How?"

She smiled. "We had a few things in common." He let her into the house—maybe letting a stranger in wasn't the smartest thing, but she didn't exactly look like serial killer in that skirt. "What are you going to do with this place?"

"Sell it, I guess." Paul shrugged, feeling a bit odd, standing there, watching this girl walk around his house. Well, who wouldn't? He'd met her two seconds ago, and now she was his house, looking like she had been there a hundred times before.

Which maybe she had. He didn't really know what kind of company his grandfather had had before Paul had come to live with him.

Somehow they ended up in the attic, and Emma wandered around, peering at some of the labels. She seemed completely unphased by how dirty and dusty everything was. Paul smiled wryly, leaning against the doorway. If he'd brought Kelly or Suze up here, they would have been freaking out about what was probably happening to their shoes. And they definitely wouldn't be bending down like Emma was right then, letting her skirt drag on the floor.

She straightened suddenly and turned to look at him. "Where's your broom?"

He blinked at her. "My what?"

"Your broom. You must have one. Where is it?"

"Uh… I think it's in the kitchen, but—" He watched, surprised, as she hurried past him, and disappeared down the stairs. What the hell…?

A couple minutes later, she reappeared, broom in hand. And then she started sweeping attic floor.

"What are you doing?"

She smiled at him. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

That was a good question. "You don't have to do that, you know. I was going to—"

She shrugged, cutting him off. "I know." She just went on sweeping, chatting animatedly as she did so.

The second thing Paul thought about Emma Davis, once he got over the initial physical attraction, was that she was a bit unusual. The fact that she walked around in long skirts—which, he found out later, was her normal, everyday attire—aside, she was unusually friendly. Even to a guy she'd just met ten minutes ago.

He wondered later if that wasn't what got her in trouble in the end.

But he liked listening to her talk while she worked. And after awhile he joined her in cleaning things up, still listening to her. By the time it was time for her to go home, the attic looked a hell of a lot better than it would have if he had tried to do it alone. So, when she asked tentatively if she could come back tomorrow, he didn't even stop to think before he said yes.

It was an odd way to start a friendship. Maybe it happened because he was curious about how she knew his grandfather, or maybe it was because she managed to charm him within the first few minutes of knowing her. Whatever the reason, there wasn't any turning back.

* * *

A/N:-P Odd meeting. Ah, well. Had to happen one way or another. And it's convenient for later. lol 


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Another second attempt at this… though the first attempt only had the Author's note so far. XD –plays "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls over and over while writing this and watching Cubs game- I can totally multi-task.

Chapter 2

After that first day, things fell into a rhythm. Emma came over after lunch, and they went up to the attic to sort through all the boxes. Paul hadn't realized just how big a project it was going to be until they started. Then he was grateful for Emma's help—he could just imagine how long it would have taken if he'd been by himself.

Sometimes they would talk while they worked, other times they sat in comfortable silence. Though the times that they did talk, Paul quickly discovered that she wasn't terribly forthcoming with personal information.

On the second day, Paul asked her how she'd met his grandfather. She'd just smiled as she bent over the notebook she'd been looking through, and all she said was "Sheer dumb luck."

And that was the extent of what she had to say on the subject.

* * *

It was about midway through the first week when they found the photo albums.

"Ohhh!" Emma suddenly exclaimed, reaching into the box she had just opened. She straightened, looking a little triumphant, as if she had just found some great treasure that she'd been searching for, and not just a bunch of dusty old albums. "Pictures!" She plopped down in the window—it wasn't quite wide enough to really call it a "window seat"—and started flipping through it.

Paul sent an amused look over his shoulder from where he stood on the other side of the room. They had soon realized that everything in the attic had been separated—work related things on one side, family and other personal things on the other side. "They're not really that interesting."

"Oh, of course they are." She bent over the photo album in her lap. "I never took Dr. Slaski as the sentimental type."

Paul had been surprised the first time she'd called his grandfather "Dr. Slaski." Most everyone he knew—well, except for Suze and Jesse—called him "Mr. Slater." But he'd shrugged it off, figuring it didn't really mean anything.

"He wasn't." Paul shrugged. "My grandmother probably did most of it when she was still alive."

"Hmm," she murmured. She was silent for a few moments, flipping slowly through the pictures. "Ohhh,"—Paul was starting to think that was her favorite sound to make—"it's their wedding picture." She leaned forward to look more closely at the picture. "He was rather handsome back then." She poked the picture, looking a little amused. "Even with the paunch."

Paul stared at her. "Grandpa Gork?" He didn't think about saying it. Habit. He didn't even realize he'd said it until Emma sent him a reproachful look. He winced. "Sorry."

A few minutes later, he heard her say, "Oh, how precious!" She turned the photo album so he could see it. "That can't be you, can it?" she asked, pointing to a picture of a little boy in his high chair.

Paul smiled wryly. "No, it's probably my dad."

"Babies are so adorable." Paul had the feeling that nothing phased this girl. She'd probably think the ugliest child in the world was adorable.

Some time after that they completely gave up trying to sort through the boxes and ended up in the window, pouring over the photo albums, laughing at some of the stranger ones, and wondering aloud what had been happening when the pictures had been taken.

"How do you think he managed to get that in there?" Paul asked, pointing to a picture of his father as a toddler, his face covered in tomato sauce and pieces of spaghetti hanging out of every conceivable place on his head—his hair, his mouth, even his _ears and nose_, for God's sake.

Emma covered her mouth, trying not to burst out laughing. "I don't think we want to know."

Too soon, Emma glanced out the window at the setting sun. "I should be getting home," she said reluctantly, standing up. "It'll be dark by the time I get there."

Paul stood, too, feeling just as reluctant to end this. "I could give you a lift."

She shot him a strange look, one he couldn't read—or at least, what he thought he read there didn't make any sense to him. "That's okay." She set the photo album they'd been looking at back in its box. "Can I come back tomorrow?" she asked without looking up at him. She asked that every time she left.

Paul grinned. "Do you really have to ask that after today?" When she didn't answer right away, he sighed. "Of course you can come back tomorrow." He waved a hand around the attic. "God knows how I'd get through this without you."

He'd finally managed to coax another smile from her. "You're right. You'd never be able to get through it all without me around."

Paul saw her out, and then made his way back up to the attic. He pulled out the album they'd been looking at and sat in the window again. He could still picture her sitting there with him, turning the pages. And then, just as easily, he could still see the look on her face when he'd offered her a ride home.

He didn't understand it. Not at all.

* * *

A/N: There was going to be more to that last thought. But it didn't quite fit. :-P maybe next chapter. 


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Wow. Chapter 3, and I'm only now switching point of views. For all of ten seconds. But still. It counts, y'all know it does.

And sorry it's taking so long… -sigh-

Chapter 3

She hated the walk home.

Emma glanced over her shoulder at yet another imagined sound—God, this guy was making her paranoid. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? What had she ever done to him, anyway?

She should have taken Paul up on his offer to drive her home. But that would have just been prolonging the inevitable, she knew that. One day, when Paul didn't have time to go out of his way to take her home, she would have to walk home again, and it would be even worse than usual.

That, and dragging someone she'd just met—even if it _was_ Dr. Slaski's grandson—into it didn't seem very fair.

"Look what we have here." As Emma passed by an alleyway—why did shady characters always have to hide in alleys?—an arm snaked out and grabbed her arm, yanking her into someone's hard chest. "Hiya, sweetheart."

Emma stiffened. Oh, God. Not again. "Let me go."

"Aww, come on now. You know you like it when I touch you." His arm moved around her waist. Toying with her. That's what he was doing. He was toying with her.

His hand moved and her elbow lurched back, hitting him in the chest. He let her go, probably more out of surprise than pain. She didn't care, she got out of there as quickly as she could.

"Stupid bitch," he called after her, his voice following her down the darkening street. "One of these days I'm going to get tired of you. You know where you'll be then?"

* * *

She was very quiet the next day. Paul glanced at her as she sat in the window, flipping through a journal. He had hoped that they would continue with the photo albums today, but she had come up to the attic, ignored the box they'd been going through the day before, and started going through his grandfather's journals. All without saying more than five words to him.

"Are you okay?" he finally asked, though obviously she wasn't. She didn't respond. He waited a moment, then crossed the floor to stand next to her. She didn't look up. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Emma?"

She jerked away at his touch, staring at him wide-eyed.

"Whoa." Paul held up his hands, taking a step back. He didn't like the look on her face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anyone look like that—it was scary, especially on someone like her. "Calm down, sweetheart." The endearment slipped out. He didn't use it very often—hell, he'd dated Kelly for a year and never used it once—but somehow it was hard not to use with Emma.

"Please don't call me that," she said in a small voice.

"Yeah… yeah, sure. Sorry." He waited a beat. "What's wrong?"

She turned back to the journal in her lap. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. Just… tired."

Paul left her alone for awhile. They worked in silence, until Emma glanced out the window, stood, and said, "I think I should head home."

Tossing down the notebook he'd been looking through, Paul turned toward her. "You should let me take you home."

Emma put the journal away keeping her back to him. "I can get home just fine."

"You could get there a lot faster if I drove you," Paul insisted. If this is what happened when he left her alone, he didn't want to have to do it more than absolutely necessary.

"It's okay. The exercise is good for me, anyway."

She was tiny already. How much more could it possibly do for her? "Maybe—"

"I'll be fine," she insisted. She offered him a little smile, probably trying to reassure him. "It's not like I'm going to get lost."

In the end, he let her walk herself home. But he couldn't stop himself from following her at a distance. It turned out that she lived quite a ways away. By the time he'd walked to her house and then walked back, his legs were aching. And he still didn't know what was wrong.

She was better the next day. Not quite back to normal, but at least she didn't jump every time he came within two feet of her. And the day after, she was practically back to normal. But it didn't keep him from wondering, all the same.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Somewhere in the midst of their search through the attic, certain events began to stick out in Paul's mind.

Emma's mood was, as a general rule, cheerful and talkative, as he'd come to expect. But on every few days or so the silence returned, and Emma was never very forthcoming with the reason for it.

Not that it was any of his business.

It was one of those days again. Emma sat in the window, flipping through a notebook, while Paul did the same on the other side of the room, glancing at her occasionally, wishing she would say something—anything.

To his surprise, she did. She closed the notebook in her lap and looked at him. "Paul?" He looked up, waiting. "Do you ever think about death?"

He gaped at her. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that hadn't been it. The correct answer to the question, of course, would have to be _all the damn time_, since he dealt with ghosts every day. But she didn't know about that, so instead, he said "Uh… I guess. As much as anyone else does, anyway."

She nodded, and turned to gaze out the window.

Knowing from experience not to try to push her, Paul went back to reading the journals.

But she wasn't finished yet. "Do you think there's a God?"

Paul stopped and thought about that for a moment. Considering his own experiences, he'd thought on the subject quite a lot. "I don't know. I guess so." He waited a beat. "Do you?"

She didn't answer for a long time. "I don't know," she finally said. And then the silence returned.

For whatever reason, that night he managed to win the argument for taking her home. Well, sort of. They compromised—he could take her home. On foot. In retrospect, Paul realized she had probably insisted on it to dissuade him.

No such luck.

As they were walking—again, in silence—someone called out, "Hello, Emma." Paul saw Emma stiffen and close her eyes. He glanced in the direction of the voice, but whoever it had been had already disappeared.

"Who was that?" he asked, glancing at Emma, and feeling uneasy at the look on her face. He kept looking over his shoulder, as though expecting someone to pounce from the shadows.

"No one," she said. She started walking faster and he had to increase his stride to keep up with her.

"Okay, so it was no one." When she just kept walking, he ventured, "Is this 'no one' the reason why you've been acting so weird?"

She stopped suddenly and whirled to face him so quickly that he knocked into her. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling back, which only resulted in her trying to move away from him—he should have known better than to try to touch her when she was like this—and before he knew it, they'd fallen over onto the grass, him laying atop her.

"Get off of me," she huffed, pushing at his chest. "And I'm not—"

He didn't what made him do it. Later, when he looked back on it, he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking at that moment.

But right then, he leaned down and kissed her.

Could kissing a pretty girl be counted as a religious experience? Probably not, considering they were lying on a patch of grass on the side of the road. But at any rate, it felt heavenly all the same.

When he finally pulled back, she was staring at him kind of dazed. He grinned, trying not to feel too happy with himself—aw, hell, who was he kidding? Who wouldn't feel a little full of himself if he got that reaction from a girl he'd been kissing? "You're not what?"

She blinked, like she was trying to remember what she'd been saying. "I'm not weird."

He laughed, and leaned down to kiss her again. Only this time she was ready for him and turned her head to the side, so he got the corner of her mouth instead. Still, it was a start. "No, you're definitely not."

They continued their walk without anymore mishap, but when Paul looked down at Emma, he saw that her cheeks were very, very red.

He was grinning the entire walk home.

* * *

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

Emma froze, turning to stare at Paul like he'd lost his mind. Which he quite obviously had. It had been a week since the kiss, and nothing had happened since then. Well, at least not while she was with him. But that was another matter entirely.

"I… nothing, I guess."

"Great. What do you think about going out for dinner?" Paul smiled. "We could go down to this restaurant by the beach, if you want, or—"

"Dinner?" She gaped at him. "You mean a date?"

Paul stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. "Yeah. A date." He shrugged.

"I don't think so." She turned away from him, her cheeks burning. "I—I have stuff to do."

"Didn't you just say you had nothing to do tomorrow night?" When Emma turned to stare at him, he raised his eyebrows and smiled. "So you can go then."

Emma discovered very quickly that life was much easier if you just didn't argue with Paul Slater.


End file.
